The Price of a Clear Mind
by C.F. Bunnell
Summary: Only rated M because: TRIGGER WARNING - SELF HARM Sherlock really didn't mean to do it that deep. He also didn't mean for his flatmate to find out. Hurt!Sherlock Protective!John


**Author's Note:**

 **I don't own Sherlock**

 **TRIGGER WARNING: SELF HARM!**

 **Also strong language in parts.**

 **I do not condone self harm. If you are considering self harm, please get help. You don't have to go through this alone.**

He had fucked up. Badly. Sherlock's eyes scanned his arm, scrutinizing what he had done. He didn't mean to do it that deep, he really didn't, but nevertheless it had happened.

And shit, there was blood everywhere. Sherlock felt his heart flutter as he shakily reached for a bathroom towel and pressed it to his forearm.

"Sherlock?" John's voice carried through the bathroom door, making Sherlock jump.

"In a minute John."

Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit. This wasn't helping at all, it was just ruining the towel. Sherlock tossed it towards the bathtub and stood, swaying at the wave of dizziness that hit him.

' _Okay'_ he thought. _'Statistically, minor blood loss is fine.'_ The world tilted, and his stomach lurched _. 'Or maybe not…'_ He glanced down at his arm, which was becoming increasingly redder, and tugged his sleeve over it. The blue dress fabric became stained almost immediately.

Making up his mind to subtly extract John's medical knowledge from him, he held his arms behind his back, applying pressure with his other hand, and strode out into the living room. John, who was watching TV, turned to look at him.

"Ah there you are Sherlock. Listen, I think I found a –"

"I'm doing an experiment," Sherlock interrupted suddenly. John blinked, looking rather annoyed.

"Okay…"

"And I was hoping you would help me." There were spots in his vision now. He needed to get to the point.

"Sherlock, can't this wait until –"

"No. What is the quickest way to stop bleeding?" John sighed, relenting in hopes that he could get this over with quickly.

"It really depends on –"

"From a knife! A cut! Now come on, are you just going to sit there and…" He had made the mistake of gesturing, something he does frequently. But today, in his haste, it slipped his mind that he was trying to hide something and consequently brandished his stained hands in his impatience.

He saw John's eyes widen as he rose from his chair. Sherlock quickly returned his arms to behind his back, but John has already saw.

"Are you hurt? Let me see." John looked confused, Sherlock noted, so he must not have realized. Not yet, that is.

"No," Sherlock protested as he took a step backwards.

"What? Why not?" John countered, closing the gap.

"Just answer the question John!" Sherlock said frantically, stepping back again. But he had become off balance, and reflexively stuck out his arm to brace against the wall. John seized the opportunity and snatched his flatmate's wrist, tugging him closer. John pushed up the sleeve, which was now very wet with deep crimson, to reveal one large, deep, diagonal cut, surrounded by smaller shallow wounds in varying degrees of healing from above and below. John's mouth fell open.

"Christ," he whispered, loosening his grip just enough for Sherlock to yank his arm back. Dumbstruck and eyes wide, he moved his gaze back to the detective, who looked away, jaw clenched, for once subdued and without a smart comment.

"Oh Christ Sherlock…" John's stomach felt like it was being put through a blender. He knew Sherlock was tempted by drugs but by this…? John licked his lips and stepped forward with his hand outstretched.

"Let me see," He said, his voice soft and as calm as he could manage.

"No," Sherlock couldn't prevent himself from shaking, or from the thick feeling in his throat. Stupid human emotions.

"Sherlock…"

"You already saw, you don't need to see again." Sherlock's voice wavered. John inhaled deeply, forcing his tone to stay calm and steady.

"Damn it Sherlock, I'm a bloody doctor. Now let me help you. Please."

Sherlock didn't try to think of another way out, didn't respond, just stuck his left arm back out sending droplets of blood to the floor. John's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the wound again.

He immediately grabbed his flatmate's arm, applying as much pressure as humanly possible, and led him back to the bathroom. He only paused for a second when he saw the bloodied knife lying on the counter and the stained towel draped across the bathtub edge. He then pushed Sherlock gently to sit down on the toilet seat and knelt in front of him.

John tried to be in his army-doctor mode, free from panic, but a swarming sick sensation was ever-presently burning in his stomach. Because _Christ_ this was his _best friend._

His best friend who, he noticed upon glancing up, had tears in his eyes. Sherlock was doing his best to look anywhere but at the doctor. John retrieved the towel and pressed it against his ghostly pale friend's arm.

"Do you want to tell me why you did this?" John murmured, his eyes closed. He looked like he was in a lot of pain.

"You're going to leave." It was a statement, not a question. John's eyes snapped opened in surprise, and he looked at his distraught friend.

"What? Not fucking right now, I'm not." There wasn't an amount of pounds that would make him leave this flat right now.

Sherlock bit his tongue, still staring off at the wall.

"People already find me…bothersome, overbearing. You were in a war, you were around strong people," Sherlock twisted his mouth, looking rather bitter. "And now you're living with a drug user who you just found cutting himself. Don't worry, I'm not surprised. All the evidence points to you leaving."

John shook his head incredulously.

"Well, you seem to be losing your touch then, because you're overlooking a lot. Such as the fact that you're my best friend and I'd do anything for you, and I'm most certainly not _leaving_."

Sherlock looked up, finally meeting John's eyes. John had never seen the probable-genius look so lost and confused, almost like a puppy in a crowd without its mother. He had also never seen Sherlock _so damn close_ to crying.

John broke the eye contact after a few moments to lift the towel and check to see if he made any progress stemming the blood flow. The bleeding had slowed, but it was still persistently trickling out.

John could now, with less blood to cloud his view, see how concerningly deep the injury was. There was a nauseating, tingling stab in his chest when he looked at Sherlock's arm, at the sickening contrast between his pale skin and the dark blood. John covered it again with the towel, trying to push down even harder. He stared down for a minute, thinking.

"Sherlock, this is…really deep…" He hesitated, a question nagging at his mind that he was dreading to ask, for fear of the answer.

"No," Sherlock muttered under his breath, making John look up in confusion.

"Yes mate, it really is."

"I mean, no, I wasn't trying to kill myself. I could see you thinking." John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Then, why?"

"It stops me from thinking. Resets my mind." Sherlock had gone even paler, his eyes fluttering as he leaned forward into John slightly.

"Hey," John grasped his shoulder, pushing him back upright. Another frightening thought entered his head.

"Sherlock, did you take anything?"

"No," came his mumbled response, eyes still closed.

"Are you lying?" John pressed further.

"Use some reasoning John. If I'm trying to hurt myself I'm not going to take something that will make me numb. It's not logical. I'm just a little lightheaded."

John's stomach flipped at the mention of him hurting himself. He lifted the towel again, only to be greeted with fresh wave a blood. John sighed.

"You need the hospital."

Sherlock began fervently shaking his head in response.

"Sherlock –"

"You're a doctor, you can fix it." Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat. "I didn't mean to do it that deep. Please, just fix it." John pursed his lips, considering the detective.

"It would be better if the hospital did it."

"I don't care," Sherlock protested, his voice extremely unsteady. Damn his human body. Damn it all. "Please, John," he breathed.

John sighed, grabbing Sherlock's hand and placing it on the towel.

"Apply a lot of pressure, okay? And I'm taking this," he grabbed the bloody knife, "with me." John stopped at the door, hand on the knob, hesitating. "I'll be right back. And for God's sake, promise me you won't do anything, and you'll stay right here until I come back."

Sherlock nodded mutely, staring at the floor.

A few minutes later, John pushed the bathroom door open to reveal Sherlock, sitting exactly where he had left him, except with the towel on the floor and his arm laying limply in his lap.

John opened his mouth to tell him to put the damn towel back but stopped when Sherlock noticed he was there and startled, swiping at his eyes. They were rather red and watery. John's chest ached. He cleared his throat and walked through the door.

"Sherlock," he started, but was at a loss of how to comfort him.

"As much as I hate it, I am constantly reminded of how human I am." Sherlock muttered shakily, glancing at John and then away again. John set his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, trying to offer some sort of comfort.

"It'll be okay Sherlock. Almost there," he said, trying to keep his voice moderately light. He set his supplies on the floor: a small cup of medical sterilizing alcohol, a sewing needle, some dental floss, gauze, wrap, and a half-drunk bottle of whiskey.

"Here, drink some," John said to Sherlock, pressing the bottle into his uninjured hand. "Doctor's orders. It'll help a little with the pain."

"Can't I just take…" Sherlock began, but trailed off soon. He looked down and took a swig of the drink.

"What do you…" John's face hardened. "You have some in the flat, don't you?" Sherlock remained silent, taking another gulp.

"Okay," John murmured, picking up the alcohol and dipping his tools into it. "We'll deal with that later, then."

He poured some alcohol on his hands and then over Sherlock's arm, eliciting a sharp hiss from his flatmate.

Then John threaded the dental floss through the needle and got to work stitching his friend's arm.

His friend.

His best friend.

Sherlock.

Who was crying.

Who had been cutting himself.

Christ.


End file.
